It was near midnight when Stanley, who was that night on command, after completing his rounds, and perceiving every sentinel on duty, found himself unconsciously on the part of the tower we have named.  So pre-occupied was his mind, that he looked beneath him without shrinking; and then retracing his steps some twenty or thirty yards from the immediate and unprotected edge, wrapped his mantle closely round him, and lying down, rested his head on his arm, and permitted the full dominion of thought.  He was in that dreamy mood, when the silence and holiness of nature is so much more soothing than even the dearest sympathy of man; when every passing cloud and distant star, and moaning wind, speaks with a hundred tongues, and the immaterial spirit holds unconscious commune with beings invisible, and immaterial as itself.  Above his head, heavy clouds floated over the dark azure of the heavens, sometimes totally obscuring the mild light of the full moon; at others merely shrouding her beams in a transparent veil, from which she would burst resplendently, sailing majestically along, seeming the more light and lovely from the previous shade.  One brilliant planet followed closely on her track, and as the dark masses of clouds would rend asunder, portions of the heavens, studded with glittering stars, were visible, seeming like the gemmed dome of some mighty temple, whose walls and pillars, shrouded in black drapery, were lost in the distance on either side.  Gradually, Stanley’s thoughts became indistinct; the stars seemed to lose their radiance, as covered by a light mist; a dark cloud appearing, in his half dormant fancy, to take the gigantic proportions of a man, hovered on the battlement.  It became smaller and smaller, but still it seemed a cloud, through which the moonlight gleamed; but a thrill passed through him, as if telling of some impalpable and indefinable object of dread.  With a sudden effort he shook off the lethargy of half sleep, and sprung to his feet, at the very moment a gleaming sword was pointed at his throat.  “Ha, villain! at thy murderous work again!” he exclaimed, and another moment beheld him closed in deadly conflict with his mysterious foe.  A deep and terrible oath, and then a mocking laugh, escaped his adversary; and something in those sounds, nerved Stanley’s arms with resistless power:  he was sure he could not be mistaken, and he fought, not with the unguarded desire of one eager to obtain satisfaction for personal injury—­but he was calm, cool, collected, as threefold an avenger.  For once, the demon-like caution of the supposed Italian deserted him:  discovery was inevitable, and his sole aim was to compass the death of the hated foreigner with his own.  He tried gradually to retreat to the very edge of the precipice, and Stanley’s calm and cautious avoidance of the design lashed him into yet fiercer desperation.  Thick and fast, fell those tremendous blows.  The Italian had the advantage in height and size, Stanley in steady coolness and